


Graven Image

by irrelevant



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Episode Tag, M/M, Mind Meld, Mirror Universe, TOS: Mirror Mirror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-21
Updated: 2010-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 01:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevant/pseuds/irrelevant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thou shalt have no other gods before me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graven Image

**Author's Note:**

> Tag to 2.10 _Mirror, Mirror_, set within the Mirror-verse. Two intelligent, amoral men attempt to communicate. With, you know, each other.

_For thou shalt worship no other god; for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God._ -Ex 34:14

  


The unmistakable whine of a transporter beam penetrates my unconscious state. Air particles vibrate and separate, displaced by solidifying matter. I push upwards through layers of fatigue to consciousness and then I am blinking my eyes into focus, confronted by improbable white luminescence.

My quarters are as near to impregnable as I can make them. Three separate security systems, all of my own design, repel attempted computer-generated trespass. The atmosphere within is regulated beyond the parameters of ship-wide life support. Modified sensors provide continuous analysis; the data stream is relayed to environmental, which I have programmed to monitor for and identify from among several thousand known harmful elements and compounds as well as their possible permutations. Should such detection occur the vents will be sealed, the proper neutralizing agent released. If I am present and incapacitated, bio sensors will note impaired vital signs and further security measures will be activated, alerting my guard. Without these precautions, should some unspecified individual attempt to pipe a lethal inhalant in with the atmosphere I prefer, in all probability I would die before I discovered the anomaly.

On the _Enterprise_ such occurrences are commonplace. We surround ourselves with operatives and bodyguards, with intricate security systems and a redundancy of failsafes. We condition ourselves to react to the smallest changes in our environment. I have killed Fleet crew aboard this ship and off of it to save my own life and still I am unprepared to encounter an attack within supposedly safe territory. Lingering exhaustion slows my reflexes, but it is astonishment more than lethargy that hinders me as I move not quite fast enough to prevent my captain's knife from lodging in the skin of my throat.

The edge penetrates flesh and there is blood, a trail of it thin and wet down my chest, pooling in my navel.

He looks down at me, down upon me and he says, "Why?"

I do not pretend to misunderstand him. "Would your reaction have differed had I merely removed it from your quarters?"

He makes a noise much as a l'matya does when cheated of its prey. The knifepoint jabs at me and my blood flows faster, soaked invisible into the black fabric of my shirt. I hold myself still and wait. For an opening, the knife's falter, for the irrational heat of his anger to make him careless. All these things I can and will use against him; what I told his counterpart is true. I know how formidable an opponent he can be, but in this I am his equal.

I look up at him, as much of him as I can see in the muted light from the sen hearth. If I believed in coincidence I might name the presence of that light serendipitous. My family has been in possession of the hearth for generations. It is visual memory: where I've come from and that to which I shall not return. I do not often use it, but the impulse which prompted me to burn _k'sthal_ this shift end, illogical as it seemed at the time, was very well. Though my night vision is better than a human's it is not equal to that of a full-blood Vulcan's; I would not wish this confrontation to take place in total darkness. As it is, the captain's appearance is insubstantial, little more than an outline.

The knife at my throat is reality.

"I did not anticipate your method of entry," I say, and he laughs, uninhibitedly human in his response.

"Mr. Scott was kind enough to rig the transporter for me. He was...very precise in his calculations."

I am sure my expression reflects my incredulity. We both know kindness had nothing to do with Scott's motivations, more likely the threat of death via extended exposure to the agony booth. As threats go, I have found that one to be most efficacious; it is not an easy death. That the captain would use it to achieve his personal ends is understood. His motive for coming here alone and at the risk of his life is less obvious, and once again I am fascinated by the dichotomy of the man. He is ruthless in his drives, bent on surviving at all costs, yet his physical courage is undeniable.

Though he undoubtedly knew the statistics prior to mounting the transporter platform, I say: "The percentage of beam failure in instances of attempted security breach is forty-nine point nine seven. You are already aware of the dangers of site-to-site transport."

"Is that disappointment I hear?" Edged and honed. Like the knife. "You should have killed me while you had the chance. One push in the right place and you'd have been captain."

"You assume that I wish the captaincy." The muscles in my left arm spasm; my position is most awkward. "Captain. If you do not intend to kill me now, allow me to rise. I will not attack you."

He tilts his head slightly to one side. "And what is a Vulcan's word worth these days?"

Were I fully human, my control less Vulcan, I might give him the reaction he desires. I am not human. I am not Vulcan. I am both—and neither.

I say, "Sir, I leave that to your discretion," and he laughs again. It is as bitter-sounding as before but he pulls the knife from my neck and steps back, and I attempt to shift myself on arms that have lost feeling. My shirt adheres to my chest; it sticks and slides against my skin with my movements. The shallow wound on my throat has closed but a certain amount of blood loss has occurred nevertheless.

"Well, come on. Get up."

He grows restless, impatient with my delay. A delay, I think as my left deltoid seizes, that will be of unspecified duration. Interminable seconds pass as I initialize the disciplines that assert mind over body; my musculature is slow to respond. "My apologies, sir. The position in which I slept appears to have interfered with several muscle groups."

"Oh for god's—"

His hand closes around my right wrist. He pulls me into a sitting position, releasing me as fast as he took hold of me then stepping back. The movement causes the light to reflect dully off the phaser he wears at his hip and I find it strange and strangely revealing that he threatens me not with the phaser but with tritanium-enforced steel. He is a man of compelling inconsistencies. Briefly, I recall his counterpart. All the inconsistencies I see in the man before me seemed in that other to complement one another; he made them work for him rather than against.

That Kirk was a whole man. This one…

But I cannot hold what he is or is not against him. The Kirk I know is as much a product of this universe as the other was of his own. My captain is not lesser than his counterpart, merely a different facet of a multidimensional fractal. Self-similarity is approximate rather than definite and his segment of the whole is perhaps more jagged than others.

In general, I find his ruthless aspect more convenient than not. In the past I have provoked that side of him, used my knowledge of his reactions and tendencies to further my aims just as he makes use of my specialized knowledge and abilities, and occasionally my appearance. We are each the other's asset; exploitation is mutual and mutually beneficial. Was mutual. Interrupted symbiosis has brought us to this room, these circumstances. The outcome is as yet undetermined but I find myself more curious than apprehensive. His behavior is unpredictable, that much is certain.

He backs away from me where I sit awkwardly on my bunk in a tangle of sheets, until his shoulders are up against the partition between rooms. Reddish light flickers over bare arms and gold fabric. "I saw Moreau's request for transfer. It was your authorization code on the transmission."

It is not a question. I answer anyway. "She wished to leave. You would not release her."

"And the recommendation for her elevation to full lieutenant?"

"She was a danger to this ship. Promotion and transfer seemed the logical solution," I attempt to say, but I manage only a partial explanation before he snaps, "She was too dangerous to let go," cutting me off. He takes a step towards me, his eyes narrowed in obvious dissatisfaction. His breath comes too quickly; his free hand twitches towards the phaser.

"Is this your idea of fair play? You give the one person who knows too many of my blind spots the freedom to choose her own path. Then you detonate my main line of defense. If she opens her mouth and Fleet IA decides to investigate… Spock." His face twists in something like pain. "You know what they'll do to me if they find out I concealed tech of that calibre."

After years spent among my mother's people, I am still not wholly conversant with the full range of human emotion. I do know the sound of betrayal when I hear it in his voice.

There is no evidence to be found; if there was, it would not matter. But he does not know that and I do not yet wish to explain. I say, "The device is destroyed and the lieutenant's rank assured. Should she choose to speak, it will be your word against hers. If she loses credibility—which she must, considering the lack of evidence—she will lose all. She does not seem the type to risk so much for so little."

He doesn't move, his eyes the only life in the stillness of his face. Then his mouth twitches, quivers, and one corner lifts, barely. "Eminently logical, Mr. Spock. I don't know why I expected anything less."

The set of his shoulders is not as rigid as it was. I can only assume he feels more in control of the situation. He walks, seemingly aimless, towards the bunk's headboard. The knife dangles from his fingers, he is less than a meter away from me, his profile towards me, and if I wish to shift the balance of power the probability of my success is presently equal to the probability of failure.

I will make no such attempt. He is testing me, waiting for me to make my intentions towards him clear. I intend my actions, or rather their lack, to speak for themselves: I do not want his death, his rank or his ship.

Point five minutes pass, one minute, and I am still sitting on the bunk. I have not moved. The curve of his mouth flattens; he drops his gaze to study the objects arrayed across the top of the headboard.

"Vulcans—pride themselves on their logic." He retrieves the top book in a stack of them—Sytek's _Variations_—and flips through the pages. The book slams shut. He holds it up. "Hard copy is bulky, takes up space. Wouldn't it be more logical, more _practical_ to download to a tablet? But I see you've used your allocated space to house quite a few of these—impracticalities."

_Variations_ thumps back down on the headboard and he looks at me, and his eyes, deep space nothing no species can long withstand. "Today you destroyed invaluable technology. Three weeks ago you committed treason."

"A serious charge, and one that carries the death penalty," I say. "However, should the charge prove unfounded, the slandered may in turn bring charges against their accuser."

Wordless back-of-the-throat sound is—derision? "I think contacting the Akkaad and via them Organia definitely counts. At least it does when the planet now under Organian protection is the most promising source of dilithium we've ever found."

"There are other worlds, unoccupied worlds of equal possibility."

"Why waste time and resources on exploration when you've got a sure thing? Or had." There is something new, amusement perhaps, in his manner. The tense atmosphere pervading the room beings to dissipate. I begin to experience something I believe to be hope.

"You know," he says, "the Empire won't back down. Now those interstellar meddlers have stuck their noses in it'll be a matter of pride."

"Past disagreements with Organia have not ended in our favor. Would it not be more prudent to retrench? We have gained nothing, but neither have we lost. If we engage the Akkaad that will soon change."

"Since when is Starfleet synonymous with prudence? Spock, what do you think's going to happen when Communications turns up that transmission?"

"To which transmission do you refer, sir?"

His anger is not gone, only subdued; the knife is still in his hand. He says, softly, "Don't start something you can't finish, mister. Not with me."

I deem it prudent to remain silent. The softened curve of his mouth validates my decision. He is never so dangerous as when he seems not.

"It'll be traced, you can count on that," he says. "Some clever comm tech will backtrail the routing signature and do you know what'll happen then, hmn?"

I open my mouth but he's already continuing, "I'll tell you. I'll lose the only officer I've got who's worth a damn—only one in the whole Fleet—and for what? A planet full of stubborn sheep who don't know what's good for them. Tell me, Spock." His face is stone, it was empty before but now… "Where's the logic in any of this?"

It strikes me that I have had this conversation before, only in reverse. "Have you not read my reports detailing the Halka incident? I included a verbatim account of my final interaction with your counterpart."

His head snaps back on his neck. "What?" His eyes appear larger than normal, their pupils enormous black within thin rims of color. "What did you just say?"

"Like you he accused me of illogic, though for reasons diametrically opposed to those you have presented. It is fascinating how alike, yet unalike two individuals with identical genetic material can be."

His fist slams down, impacting the headboard. A carven Han Dynasty horse, presented to me as a child by my mother, trembles then topples over onto its side. I look from the damaged statue—a fissure disfigures one jade leg—to the clenched human hand next to it.

It is always this way with him: everything he is lies near to his surface. There is hardly time for thought before it becomes action. He would not be here in this room, otherwise.

"Damn you. What the hell did he do to you?"

"Specify."

Sweat beads on his forehead. He is flushed—if McCoy was here he would no doubt desire the captain to sit then proceed to monitor his blood pressure.

McCoy is not here. I am, and the captain is standing over me, shaking. He seems beyond even his limited human control. "I want to know what he said to you, _everything_ he said. I want to know what he did that could make you—"

Anger has gone supernova: the birth of a black hole. The soft signal from my communicator falls infinitely towards a half-formed event horizon. The sound is not quite swallowed up and he jerks towards it, his gaze flickers from my face to the communicator lying on the headboard, then back to my face. "Answer it."

I see no reason to refuse. The communicator trills again as I retrieve it. "Spock here."

"Commander," says Lieutenant Commander T'Reyhn, the new security chief. "Ensign Rigosh reports sounds of a disturbance in your quarters, but he could not gain entrance nor contact you through the normal channels. Though sensors detect no additional life signs within your cabin, he insists the voice he heard was not yours. Sir, may I inquire as to your status?"

I glance at the captain. There is an air of intense gratification about him: he planned his assault thoroughly and is as thoroughly satisfied with his success.

"Sir," says T'Reyhn. "Do you require aid?"

"No. I do not wish to be disturbed. Return to your duties, the ensign as well."

"Yes, Commander. T'Reyhn out."

I close the communicator and lay it aside. "Well," says the captain. "That could've gotten awkward in a hurry."

"Indeed."

"And bloody."

"A distinct possibility."

"But thanks to her first officer," he waves a hand in my direction, "pitched battle has not come to the _Enterprise_. Yet."

I raise both of my eyebrows. "It would have been remiss of me to allow that which I had the power to avert."

He is watching me, his eyes calculating, evaluating an unstable element. "I'd like to know what that little performance is going to cost me."

"I believe we have already settled the question of my price."

"Your _price_." He paces a tight line from the headboard to the far bulkhead; to the partition and back again, glancing at me every few steps. At the end of my bunk he hesitates. His suppressed agitation seems almost to vibrate the air around him. "You—the other you. He couldn't be bought and yet that pansy bastard who called himself a starship captain _owned_ him. But you." He takes a step towards me and he is reaching out, his red-lit eyes are fixed on me and I wait, I have waited, I will wait…

His hand stills midair.

The emotion in his eyes flares up sudden and bright and for the length of one breath I am certain of a thing I cannot define. One breath, both of us caught between in- and exhalation. Then what I believed I saw is gone, dying as swiftly as it lived and taking certainty with it. He lets his hand fall and I track the line of descent, the settle of fingers against black fabric.

Less than twenty millimeters more and his fingers would have touched my face.

He stands without moving, simply looking at me. For point seven two minutes I hear nothing but his labored breathing. Am aware of nothing but the thud of my heartbeat against my arm.

He lifts the knife. Another point six minutes pass, and I—I am still waiting. Still seated, looking up into his face. He looks back with equal gravity; his mouth firms and I see the decisive clench of his jaw. Hand to handle, alloy into polymer, the knife is sheathed and he is turning—he has turned his back to me. The captain of the _ISS Enterprise_ has voluntarily offered his back to his first officer, surely an unprecedented action in this ship's history.

He crosses to the partition, curling his fingers into its aeration and tilting his head back. By all appearances he is examining the deckhead, but I see that his eyes are closed. I watch the rise and fall of his shoulders, arrhythmic at first but growing steadily more even. When he speaks his voice is low in the still of the cabin.

"No one owns you. Not Starfleet or the Empire, and not me. Maybe not even Vulcan. That girl—"

"T'Pring."

"Yes, her." He drops his arm and turns to face me, eyes open. "Why would the Voice of Vulcan demand I ignore my commanding officer's orders just so my exec could play footsie with his girlfriend?"

Before I am able to exert mental control over physiological response, my hands have clenched. Emotion rebels against my imposed strictures; someday it may achieve emancipation, but this will _not_ be that day. I should have known he would not let that incident lie.

I open my mouth—I do not know what I intend to say but it does not matter. I am unable to make myself speak.

"Spock." He sounds as he does before he consigns a crew member to the agony booth. It is my turn to close my eyes; perhaps absence of sight will make the telling bearable.

"She was my—the closest Standard comes to a uniquely Vulcan concept is betrothed."

A stifled noise issues from the captain's vicinity. If I did not know better I would call it laughter. I give him the benefit of the doubt and of my closed eyes.

"She did not want me." I barely recognize my own voice, it is that distorted. I swallow in an attempt to clear the rasp from my throat. "She invoked challenge in lieu of consummation—I killed her champion."

I open my eyes. The captain is staring intently at me, but all he says is: "And T'Pring?"

Why does the sound of her name effect negative sensations within me? Congress between us has been concluded. My reactions are most illogical. "Three thousand years ago, T'Pring herself would have fought me for her freedom. Vulcan blood has grown sluggish with time and complacence." It bears repetition and emphasis: "She did not want me. She was, however, prepared to accept me if I defeated her chosen mate. I did. But I no longer wanted her."

"Ye—es. Yes. I can see where you wouldn't." He is staring past me, the elbow of one arm supported by the hand of the other, rubbing his thumb back and forth over his lower lip. He does not seem to see me—and then he does, he looks at me so exclusively that I feel I am the only thing he can see.

"Mr. Spock," he says, "I thank you for this fascinating insight into Vulcan mating rituals. You still haven't answered my question."

"Sir?"

He shakes his head at me. His smile mocks: himself or me, I am unsure. "Spock, Spock. You're arguably one of the most dangerous and dangerously intelligent beings in the galaxy. You could conquer worlds if you wanted to. And you'd rather be head down in one of your simulations, wouldn't you? Oh excuse me, I'm thinking of a strictly human scientist. In your case it would be more like five simulations."

"Captain, I hardly think—"

"What I want to know," he says over my feeble attempt at misdirection, "is _why_ it was necessary to divert to Vulcan. I can understand that you were to be—married?"

He looks an inquiry at me and I incline my head. He grins.

"Well, most of us have to some time if we want to get a few extra rungs up the right ladder. I'm sure my mother already has my prospective bride picked out." The grin twists into a grimace. "What I'm trying to say, Spock," he steps towards me, his hands eloquent patterns through the air, "is that marriage is a necessary evil. What wasn't necessary, in your case, was the timing of the thing. Why right then? Couldn't you have waited, say, three days until the end of the mission before you had to get yourself hitched?"

There is an Earth game in which I find much satisfaction, chess. Its rules are grounded in strategy and logic and I've found it to be an admirable learning tool as well as a stimulating mental exercise, given the right opponent. Until this moment I had not suspected the captain shared my pastime, but he has me securely in check, sequestered with no retreat open to me. From the glint in his eyes I gather he is aware of this fact.

That I do not intend to give him the information he seeks, he also appears cognizant. "I could make it an order."

"I…" cannot, will not, do not ask this of me, "Captain. Certain things transcend even the discipline of the service."

His will is almost a separate entity, so much stronger than any other I have encountered. The manner in which he looks at me at times, now, it is as though I must do as he wishes, if I do not I will lose part of myself. It is—difficult for me to refuse him. If he decides to force the issue…

I am almost certain that he will. Then he rubs the palm of his hand over his chin and says, "Fine. Keep your secrets. Whatever your methods, they obviously work. You're still a free agent." He smiles, one I have not seen before on his face, a face gratuitous in its expressions. "For all we've seen and done and accomplished together, you're still your own man. Aren't you?"

"I…" do not know how to answer him.

I belong to myself, yes. I cannot be other than I am and I am Spock, singular. But I am other things as well. Scientist. Explorer. Second in command of the _Enterprise_.

James Tiberius Kirk's executive officer.

Not the Empire's. Not Starfleet's. His.

I wish to tell him this. I wish to tell him and for him believe what I tell him. The other Kirk would have. He would have believed in that he was already certain of his possession. My captain reached, as he so often does with his nonsensical leaps of intuition, the correct conclusion. The Spock in the other universe belonged unequivocally to his captain and his captain knew it; it showed in the other Kirk's interactions with me. He knew I was not his Spock and still at some level trusted me, even when I held a phaser on him at point blank range. He told me to shoot, in part because defiance is intrinsic to his nature. But also because he knew I would not.

"Spock?"

And this Kirk. There is need in him, a demand for certainty. He wishes to be sure of me. Why? With everything I have done within the last day alone, were I anyone else I would be dead already. But I am alive despite that part of him which demands he dispose of a proven threat. He desires a thing he needs the opposite of and the two necessities war within him. His mind is a battleground of indecision, his face a viewscreen to every advance and retreat.

"Do you wish me to show you?" I ask.

"Show me what?"

"That I am not your enemy. That you may—" I hesitate on the word, it has little meaning for us "—you may trust me."

"That would be quite an accomplishment, my friend," he says with a short laugh.

"It is possible."

He looks at me, the corners of his mouth still curled up. "Sure it is. And I'm the Empress's pet monkey."

I hold my hand out to him: palm open, fingers spread.

"Spock, what…?" He is confused at first, of course. Comprehension begins in the widening of his eyes, culminates with his involuntary step backward. I do not hold his reaction against him, it is quite understandable. He knows what an Adept is capable of, has seen the living wreckage the methods of intelligence extraction used by Vulcan interrogators leave behind. His eyes dart up to mine and I realize that prior to now it has not occurred to him that I might have intimate knowledge of such methods.

He is right, after a fashion. I have limited knowledge of certain techniques. Though I was not trained as an Adept, my father sought supplementary instruction for me in matters of mental and emotional control; he feared my human blood would influence me more than was desirable. My tutor, though I did not know it at that time, had been an Adept before he embraced the tenets of Gol. He taught me much that my father does not to this day know of, but in his paranoia made possible for me to learn. It is one of few things I consider myself indebted to him for.

Sarek need not have concerned himself. In personal matters I have chosen Vulcan over Earth. But now that choice may have cost me that which I would give much to possess.

The captain stares at my hand as though mesmerized. "Spock?"

There is too much emotion to be contained in one word, my name. It overflows his mind into mine, becomes mine, there is no logical conclusion to this scenario. There is no answer but one.

"No."

I will not force him as I did the alternate McCoy. The situation is not desperate, the ship not presently in danger from unknown intruders, and when I think of McCoy's mind, angry and terrified beneath the press of my own, I am...uneasy. The Adepts of S'ryt Ahslat would tell me I did no more than I must—that indeed, it was my duty—but there was much in that McCoy's mind which I—

In this universe McCoy rarely interacts with the crew outside the performance of his duties; he is something of a recluse. I have heard that he barricades himself in his office at night, that he sleeps there, that he rarely leaves sickbay unless summoned. His actions may be rooted in the caution innate to much of Starfleet, but I do not think so. For want of a better description he is careless with himself. He is, I think, a good man; he is also what humans term an alcoholic. He actively avoids me, why I do not know. I only know why I avoid him.

When McCoy puts his hands on me in pursuance of his duty there is such division of spirit, such regret in his mind that I retain control over my reactions with difficulty. Having been within the other McCoy's mind, having seen what and who he is—to crew and captain, to that other Spock—my understanding of why he is as he is in my universe is perhaps greater than it has been.

Of us all, it is only McCoy whose inner self retains no mechanism for defense. His katra has not adapted to the exigencies of this universe and he cannot allow the growth of emotional callous: it would destroy everything he is at his most basic level. Instead he destroys his body and lives with the knowledge that every time he heals the remnants of a failed assassination attempt, each time he mends a nervous system damaged by the agony booth, he is enabling the injustices of this life to continue.

And yet, he must heal. To refuse to do so would be to compromise his very existence.

These conjectures I have extrapolated from the content of his counterpart's mind, and now when I look at McCoy my vision is divided. I see what he is and could have been, still might be given the chance.

I see a man whose earned respect would have meaning. I feel the comradeship, the trust that bound the alternate McCoy to his captain and to...me. Through his eyes I saw myself, but not myself. I knew what he knew, felt what he felt, and that McCoy felt outrage on his friend's behalf, that the integrity of the man he knew, the principles the other Spock lived by and with should be so perverted by a twisted mirror image of himself: me.

I find I am not content with this self image, as seen through McCoy's eyes. My counterpart could have done as I did. He could have wrenched the knowledge he required from this universe's McCoy or Scott or Uhura. From my captain. He did not. I know because McCoy knew. That Spock would not resort to such measures outside a mortally perilous situation. Sometimes not even then. To save McCoy or Kirk, or even his _Enterprise_, yes. Of that there was no doubt in McCoy's mind. But to save himself? Questionable.

My mind to your mind. I know what you know. Ritual words for mental communion, similar but with distinct variations that to a trained linguist would indicate many particulars. Subtleties that speak of sharing as opposed to taking, and vice versa.

I would share with my captain. I shall not take from him.

He is afraid, of me and of the unknown. But the courage I have noted and a curiosity almost equal to a Vulcan's compel him to accept my solution. His need is to know, to discover what lies beyond the barriers of time and space and thought. His desire to understand even that which he fears outweighs the demands of self-preservation.

He steps towards me, and again, again until he is standing beside the bunk. He sits down suddenly as though he must act now or forfeit choice. "You realize if something happens to me, there are certain—instructions that will be carried out."

"Likewise."

"And you still offer this?"

"Captain, I do." My hand is still extended. I await his consent or denial.

He looks at my hand but he does not take it. Instead he strips his sash and then his weapons belt from his hips and lays them on the headboard. Then he turns his face to mine. "Do it."

He is looking not at me but through me. I allow him his perceived disassociation; within the meld it will be of no consequence. When my fingers brush the meld points he jerks. His body is rigid beneath my touch. I do not attempt to stagger initial contact in deference to his discomfort—I can feel his desire for this joining of minds to be over as swiftly as possible. I will respect his wishes.

Though it has been years since I indulged in regular melds, my fingers slide into place with the ease of much youthful practice. The captain's skin is smooth-rough to the touch, cool under my hand; I block physical sensation and turn my attention towards the spark of human awareness just beyond the reach of my thoughts.

"Our minds are merging. Our minds are one."

His mind, mine into, it is…

Bright, expectant chaos, intent curiosity grounded in fear of...dissolution?

Yes, of self, the loss of singularity, he fights me, fears me, fears to relinquish control to me, the meld, he fears—

(himself)

_SpockthisIcan't_

It is well, I tell him, you are well here, do you not see? but he does not, he cannot and combined consciousness is fragmenting, suffocated by burgeoning terror.

He is lost inside his fear, controlled by it, and I do not see a way—ah.

Even here in this fraction of a fractal, it exists.

Thin, tenuous, nearly beyond my perception is his nascent trust; he wishes to believe me but cannot bring himself to. I touch the thread, follow it back through his fear and anger and arrogance, through surprising natural shields to where he is turned from me, always always away from me, I see the jut of his chin, the clean lines of back and shoulders, _this is who he is to himself_, I reach for him but he rejects my own self image—I cannot touch him.

The impulse to take is within me, strong and irresistible, who is this human to deny...no! I will not, I have said it. Now I will mean it.

I have waited. I will wait. The time spent in the waiting is not germane to possible resolution.

I do not, cannot know how long I am here, with him but not, touching and untouched. It is a thing immeasurable. He is gone from me, now and now and now, and then he is with me, beside me, the howl of his unrestrained human impulse all around us.

Be still, I tell him, I am with thee be thou at peace, again I reach and he is there, all that he is and he says, Spock, is that really…?

I do not answer. I will not wait any longer.

I reach and I touch, surround, penetrate, am penetrated and he is with me, surrounding and surrounded, inside and out, Oh god, he says it, not to me, to himself, his image blurring, I am he, blurred into, two where one should be it is pain his mine ours it hurts it hurts it hurtshurtshurts

**::**

The light in my quarters is lesser; the hearth's reservoir is nearly empty. The residue of his fear sours my mouth and pounds at my temples. My hand drops from his face. Slowly, his eyes open and his gaze settles on me.

He bears the look of a man subjected to a force-three stun. "How in the name of all that's holy is Earth still the seat of the Empire? Why aren't we—hell, why isn't half the damn galaxy subject to Vulcan?"

"Surak chose for us a different path," I tell him. "As well, historically speaking we are an insular species. Our early savagery was directed more towards our own clan factions than other worlds."

He winces. "As opposed to humans, you mean. I guess I deserved that."

He looks exhausted, sounds as much, but he straightens suddenly and narrows his eyes on me. "Spock, why didn't you just—" a vague flip of his hand "—do your mind thing with Marlena. Don't tell me you couldn't have erased the Field from her memory."

Why not indeed? "A single, isolated memory is one thing. She has a year's worth of memories connected to the device—a network of recall, if you will—and I do not have the training or experience to create the necessary system of mental blocks without permanently disabling her mind."

The mockery has returned to his smile. "Growing a conscience in your old age?"

"There is no call for insults, Captain."

As I expect, am depending upon, he laughs and abandons the subject. Delayed reaction is settling over him, weighting muscle and bone. His shoulders slump and, "Spock," he gropes a hand towards me, his eyes wide blind searching, and I catch his hand and he leans into me, forehead pressed against my shoulder. "Spock, I'm tired."

"Then sleep."

He lifts his head. Blank eyes blink into focus. "Here?"

"If you wish."

"I doubt I could do anything else if I wanted to," he groans, and pushes himself off my shoulder, falling facedown onto the bunk.

"Do you?" I inquire.

"Do I what?"

"Wish to take your rest elsewhere. If so, I shall expedite your return to your quarters."

His voice is muffled by my pillow: "If you can manage it so I don't have to move, fine. Otherwise forget it."

"Then may I suggest you remove your boots?"

He groans again, "You're worse than McCoy," but he maneuvers himself into a sitting position. He braces his palms on the mattress and examines his shod feet. "Spock?"

I believe 'plaintive' best describes his vocal inflection. My mother would inform him that whining generates only covalently bonded oxygen and carbon. "Sir?"

He looks back up at me. I suppress my desire to emulate my mother and I crawl from the bunk to crouch before him on the floor. He thrusts a foot out and I take hold of the boot heel.

"On your knees is a good look for you, Spock. How about I add valet service to your duty rotation—ow!"

With my next pull, the boot comes loose. I lay it aside and glance up at him as I reach for the other. "I regret that honor is one I must refuse."

The second boot comes free. "Damn it!" He pulls his feet up onto the bunk, rubbing at one ankle and glaring at me. "Mr. Spock, on a ship full of sadists, you set the curve."

"I understand the correct response within your culture would be to thank you, sir."

He pulls his tunic over his head and drops it on the floor. The garment is gone from my sight; the scowl is not. "It wasn't a compliment," he mutters, "as you well know," and lies down again, facing away from me.

He is—I believe the correct term is 'sulking'. He will end his blatant emotional display soon enough; even now his mind demands resolution for those issues not settled between us. I retrieve his sleeveless tunic and drape it over a chair, set his boots beside the far bulkhead and stretch out on my back beside him. There is room for us both, proportionally ungenerous as the dimensions are. I lay my hands flat against my abdomen. And I wait.

Five point three six minutes later, my hypothesis is proven correct. The mattress shifts and out of the corner of my eye I see him turn back over.

"Spock."

"Captain."

He pushes himself up on one arm and props his head on his hand. "The Field." He pauses, as though uncertain of his premise. "I think I'd like my explanation now."

How can I analyze what appears obvious to me? The words to express my disquiet with regards to the device are somehow beyond me. My actions have been guided not by logic but by instinct, a primeval concept of the senses. By all the teachings of my home world, I have failed.

Strange thought. If I have failed, I cannot locate the corresponding origin of failure within me.

Interesting.

"These silences of yours come out of nowhere. Should I be worried?" Though he speaks lightly, the order underlying his words is evident. He must have his answer and I must understand myself and my actions.

I begin where intuition intersects plausibility. "You could not conceal the existence of your so-called Tantalus Field forever. Eventually Lt. Moreau would have divulged its location, or someone else would have discovered it. Possibly a person with the desire and impetus to destroy you."

He appears to consider this. "True. And I suppose the inevitable reverse engineering would be your next argument?"

"Affirmative." His understanding is...my relief. I think what am I feeling must to some small extent show on my face because he grimaces at me and reaches out, tugs at the hem of my shirt.

"Someday you're going to admit—in public, mind—that this ship is my private dictatorship, not yours. And then I'll probably drop dead of sh—Spock?" He frowns at my abdomen and again tugs at my shirt, and the dried fluids adhering fabric to skin and hair begin to loosen.

The shirt gives way and his fingertips graze my bared flesh. Contrary to my control, the corners of my mouth twitch. "You'll recall, Captain, my earlier encounter with a sharp-edged object?"

He starts, his gaze jerks up to mine, and a new expression—embarrassment?—comes into his eyes. "Ah. Yes, well, inadvertent I assure you. I'll be more careful in the future."

I find I am rather enjoying the unique spectacle of my captain begging my pardon, in his own unapologetic manner. "The future?"

"You know what I mean," he snarls, discomfort turning to open hostility, and then he seems to truly see me—my uplifted eyebrows and compressed lips—and mutters something uncomplimentary regarding my mixed heritage.

"Why one of your superior officers hasn't strung you up by your pointed ears by now, I have no idea. Never mind your subordinates." His irritation is plain, but then he glances at me sidelong and he does not _look_ irritable. He starts to laugh, still watching me, and for the first time in many years I follow the dictates of emotional impulse: I smile.

He laughs quietly, almost without sound. His mirth shakes his body and his breath comes in gasps; when the compulsive quiver of his shoulders begins to subside he lies panting beside me. His eyes are closed. His mouth is relaxed, a faint smile lingering in the subtle curves of lip and cheek. There is little tension left in him and I regret that what I am about to tell him will negate what peace of mind I have given him. But I will not lie to him more than I must, by omission or other means.

"Captain."

"Hmn."

"Lieutenant Moreau demonstrated to me the operation of the device."

He is still touching me, inadvertently I think. His fingers flex, they curve against my ribs and his thoughts brush mine, full of ambivalence and wary curiosity. "Oh?"

"I believe it to have been engineered by and for a species with advanced psi abilities. When I touched the device it responded to my thought patterns and provided a crude form of mental interface. I gather this was not the case with you?"

"Not that I know of."

"Neither did it so function for the lieutenant, who is psi null. However, as evidenced by the lieutenant and yourself, psi nulls are able to use the device at its base setting. I speculate a predominantly telepathic civilization, possibly with a subsidiary race of nulls. Or a cessation of psi ability within the general populace—genetic degradation."

"In other words, they'd grown technologically advanced enough not to need what was probably an evolutionary push towards preservation of the species."

A glimpse into Vulcan's future? Or will the parched sands preserve our collective psyche as they do all else? "That is one possibility."

He is not looking at me. Without question, I have his attention. He says, "It must have killed you to destroy the thing before you could gut it and find out what made it tick."

"On the contrary: the device functioned quite silently."

He huffs an exasperated sound, "Come off it, you're more familiar with Earth slang than you'll admit. In any case, I'll count your thwarted curiosity as partial revenge. For the balance there's always the booth." His hand twitches, fingers, his skin restless against mine. "Did you—make use of Marlena's instruction?"

"Yes." And would do so again, with the same purpose, and for the same reasons.

"I see."

"I don't think that you do." I consider my next words carefully. "Captain," I tell him, "you are not now and have never been my target."

He is silent for so long that I begin to believe he does not intend to speak again. Then I hear the sharp intake of breath preparatory to speech; his mouth closes; seemingly he decides against the words first chosen; he swallows; his mouth opens again and he breathes his second words into the short distance between us.

"You know, captain and sir get old quick when we're not on the bridge or part of an exploratory party."

It is not what I had expected—he rarely is. "You must then tell me what you wish me to call you at other times in other places," I say, and wait for his response as I have done in the past and will do again in the future.

"Jim," he says finally, and his voice cracks, stumbling over the brief syllable. "My brother used to call me that. It was...a lifetime ago."

It is a small thing. I have no objection. "Very well, Jim," I say, and I feel his residual tension leave his body. His fingers slide from my skin, tactile imprint immediate on living tissue.

His hand is gone. He is still touching me.

"Good," he says. "That's good." And he smiles at me, the unguarded brilliance of him temporarily disables baseline performance of various optic functions, and I feel as though my respiratory response has been permanently compromised. I do not wish to look at him any longer and I turn away, rolling onto my side until I am facing the bulkhead. Offering him my undefended back as he offered his to me.

He could kill me now, if that is his aim. I would not have time to stop him. "There is a word," I say, my voice strange and distant in my ears.

"Vulcan?"

"Yes." I curl my fingers into fists. Touch is an insidious cancer; it corrupts all cells, their shape Vulcan or human. "It has many meanings, friend among them. I will tell you the rest another time."

The future, always uncertain. _I am with thee._

"But not now."

"Not now." Possibly never.

Outside this cabin, it is gamma shift; the guard outside my door is changing and I hear the murmur of human voices. The light from the sen hearth is still fading. Behind me the captain shifts, settling himself closer to me. He lays his hand lightly on my waist under the hem of my shirt, his fingers brush my abdomen and my muscles tighten, they jump beneath his fingers. He ignores my reaction, leaving his hand as it is. Gradually, my body stills beneath it. Cancerous cells divide, multiply. My skin, accustoming itself to his touch.

I think I shall soon find myself accustomed to many things.

He shifts again, his movement pulling the fitted sheet tight beneath me. "Spock." His forehead barely touches my shoulder blade—he is almost asleep.

"Yes?"

"Ever thought about shaving clean?" He yawns, the puff of his breath cool and moist on the back of my neck. "I liked the bare chin," he mumbles, "Only worthwhile thing about that damned place," and then sleep takes him, his body, his hand slipped lax from my side.

It will not be long before I follow him into unconsciousness. Muscle fatigue is pronounced; the levator palpebrea superiories are increasingly difficult to control. Before I succumb to the needs of my body, though, I wish to lie here and observe...Jim.

Slowly, enough that I do not disturb him, I turn over.

In sleep he looks neither young nor innocent, as some claim sleepers do. He looks only himself, perhaps less than himself, the lines of his face gone smooth and unformed in relaxation. Apart from the unusual symmetry of his physical proportions he cannot be considered beautiful in any way that I can see; he is scarred without and within. His character is not the best humanity can boast, certainly he is not kind in the ways McCoy is. His concern is at all times for his ship and himself, not his fellow creatures.

He is arrogant, capricious, cruel. He is a born leader. He is not Vulcan. He is a fragile human man. He and I are as unalike as is possible for two beings to be, yet we share an understanding that is as far beyond present-day knowledge as our present-day selves are beyond the primordial murk from which our respective species emerged.

I am Spock. He is Jim.

It is sufficient.

Red flame flares, damps. In the dying light his skin and hair are cast in ruddy gold, lines of bone and muscle thrown into stark relief like an ancient carving of Vulcan's last warrior god. Truth and a lie. The claim of warrior is his to make. He is no god. The idol has clay feet, the man as many vices as the emperors of millennia past. I do not require that he be otherwise. If that other, his physical match, appeared now before me with his talk of illogic and sedition, I would say as much.

Still, I cannot deny the truth of his counterpart's words; it is a truth which resonates strongly with me, it calls to those portions of myself I have ignored in the interests of personal security. I recall the easy bond between that Kirk and his people, McCoy in particular, and I wonder how much of my captain's better nature is subsumed within his natural desire to retain his present level of existence. Some part of him at least knows the Empire is not built on lasting principles.

We are stagnation: entropy always wins.

Soon enough, tomorrow, he will learn what I have done, the use to which I put Moreau's imparted knowledge. The chaos I have wrought. A choice, given to every captain in the Fleet. A race of time, knowledge and ability. I do not doubt the outcome. I know my captain too well.

The other Kirk did not, I am certain, mean for me to do as I have done. Even now I am unsure as to the wisdom of my actions. But it is done, it cannot be undone and if it could, I can do nothing for the present. The past month has depleted my energy stores beyond what is necessary for optimal physical performance. I have eaten. I have meditated. Now I must sleep. Tomorrow I shall further consider these matters, as I told the other Kirk I would. And weather the captain's displeasure when and as it comes.

I believe I shall also attempt to locate some form of depilatory. I am sure the captain will inform me as to the procurement of such an item. Judging by the comprehensive smoothness of his skin, it is my belief he must use such on more areas of his person than his face. Indeed, I confess to a certain amount of curiosity as to precisely how comprehensive the aforementioned dearth of androgenic hair is.

Given that he is—himself—I doubt my suspense will be protracted.


End file.
